She Wins

When I first met Patti, what excited me about her was her brashness;
her uninhibitedness; her powerful self-will. I don’t know why that
attracted me, but it did.
We dated in the glorious mutual thrill of a new couple basking in
lust and infatuation for about four months. That was a long time to me.
It was a record.

Our first fights were over meaningless things, and their duration
tended to reflect that. We both seemed to have perspective about the
things we fought over, so we never became fierce with each other. At
least not at first.

We had little in common, now that I look back on it. We shared few
interests. One thing we did share was our appetite for love-making, and
our aggressive approach to sex: I was positively ravenous, and she matched
my starved hunger. In fact, she sometimes exceeded it: I, after having my
second ejaculation – at her strong, knowing hands; her daring, deep mouth;
or her oven-like, commanding vagina – was often spent…but I could tell
she wanted more. And I couldn’t give it to her with my penis, usually:
two or – on a good day, three – ejaculations wore me out. Left me as limp
as a soggy six-inch french fry. So I’d try my best to take her to town
with my tongue, my lips, my hands – whatever she wanted. I always felt
slightly inadequate on those occasions, and I noticed that she never
pretended to be totally satisfied: she wasn’t the type of woman to put up
with lies. She was dissatisfied too, and she let me know it – with her
eyes, her facial expressions, her body language.

When I moved away to grad school in Oregon – we had lived in
California – she came to visit me several times. The distance put a
strain on our relationship. Moreover, when she came to visit me, she was
sexually starved; we had agreed not to see other people, and so our
normally powerful appetites were almost insatiable. At least, hers was: I
found – and maybe it was because I was so busy with school, my energy was
depleted – I found I was still totally satiated with two orgasms (or, on
good days, three). She usually wasn’t. I would cum, I would cum again,
then collapse. She would lie there staring at me. Expectantly.
Sometimes with obvious disappointment (which I tried to ignore).
Occasionally, while I flopped on the bed beside her, she’d grow impatient;
she reach over and cup her hand over my genitals: she’d tug lightly on my
penis, flick my balls around with her fingers, even slide a finger up to
my anus and prod gently. I’d moan in defeat; try to convey my exhaustion.
And usually she’d let it end at that. Usually.

One Sunday afternoon she wasn’t so easy on me. When I collapsed into
utter tranquility after my second orgasm, she was still driven with
libido: her body lay beside me like a neon question mark – not in the
least bit placated. Her sex had soaked up everything I could provide it
with, but she was still light years from the threshold of gratification.
She reached over, forcibly separated my partially closed legs, and put her
right hand over my testicles. She didn’t just lay her fingers on them;
she held them like a pair of dice about to be tossed onto a backgammon
board. She actually shook my balls, and I jumped in response.
“Eric! Come on, Eric! You’re not dead yet.”
With her other hand, she trapped the head of my penis between her
thumb and her first two fingers, and squeezed.
“Ouch! Whaddaya mean, I’m not dead yet?”
She gently tugged my balls toward her.

“I mean, I know you can get it up again. You’ve gone three rounds
with me before, remember? Come on, baby, you just have to try!”
She tugged me harder, and I gasped vocally. This made her laugh.
“Ooh, poor boy!”

She pressed her finger into the tender rope that extends beyond my
penis. I felt myself grow slighly harder, and she drove me on: wrapping
her fingers around my testicles like little pythons, gripping my penis
like a dead microphone, thrusting an occasional finger at my anus. I felt
like I was a scare-crow being raped, but her aggression gave me a new
burst of erotic energy: my penis rose: and she got up and rode me to a
third orgasm.

Now I was finished. Over with. Kaput. I felt like I had ejaculated
barely half a teaspoon into her, but I was spent. I looked over at her,
and smiled in dizzy gratitude; she had hauled my manhood to a level that –
at that time – I hadn’t expected it to reach. Looking at her, to my
disappointment, I saw she was still unsatisfied.

“Is that it?” She asked.
“`It?'” I responded.
“Is that all you’re good for?”
“Is that ALL…? Patti, that was three orgasms! If you’re not
satisfied with that, you’re…”
I didn’t know how to finish.
“I’m what?”
She moved closer to me, her breast pressing against my tired chest.
“I’m what?”
Once again – this time with her eyes focused on mine – she placed her
hand over my balls. Once again, she held my nuts – as if they weren’t
even a part of me – as if they were things that belonged to her, like toys
that had failed to work as advertised.
“Tell me, Eric. I’m what?”

I had had enough. I pulled away from her. To my horror, she still
gripped my balls: I couldn’t move back. I heard myself utter a sound – I
don’t know, a gasp, maybe, or a groan, a sort of masculine whimper – then,
sort of desperate, I tried to pull away again. This time she let me
retreat. But as I walked away – to the bathroom, to take a shower – I
felt her eyes drilling into me.”Sorry I wore you out,” she said.
I felt myself blush, and didn’t reply.

In the shower, with the bathroom door locked, I looked down at my
penis. I tried stroking it, just to see if I could get it up again. I
stroked it, I coaxed it, I yanked it a little – but it couldn’t go hard.
She’s demanding too much, I thought. Stupid woman. Stupid goddamn cunt.
The rest of the day we hardly spoke. Oh, she said a lot, but not
through words. She wouldn’t let me forget that I had let her down.
Whenever we walked past each other, she’d rub into me – at first
discreetly, letting her hand brush against my waist – but then more
obviously: she’d walk up behind me, and run her hand lightly over my ass.
Then later, when I was walking out of the kitchen after preparing some of
the ingredients for dinner, she blocked me in the doorway. I tried moving
to the left, and she moved to the left: I tried moving to the right, and
she moved to the right. I told her, “Excuse me,” in a kind of pissy
voice, and she smiled pityingly at me, then let me by. But as I walked
past her, she ran her fingers over my crotch. Not just brushingly: she
plunged her middle finger deep between my legs, raced it over where my
anus was, then lifted my testicles with her palm as she pulled it back.
Then she stared me in the face. I tried to totally ignore her: I had
never known her to be this hostile before. I just moved on – sat at my
desk and stared doing my homework, pretending she hadn’t just worked me.
She stood there, staring at me, then laughed. I ignored this. “Oh,
Jeeesus,” she said, then, walking into the kitchen, concluded with,
“You’re pathetic, Eric.” I didn’t respond. I felt myself blushing again,
and she left me alone. Sitting there, I envisioned my penis, hanging
between my legs – my manhood: a tiny piece of flesh, unable to get hard
enough to satisfy her. Taunted by her. A limp little thing.
I became anxious toward bedtime. We still hadn’t spoken, but I knew
that we would have some sort of confrontation in bed. She would want me
to have sex with her, but I was wounded; I felt like she had totally
humbled me – buried my masculinity in inferiority. And I didn’t know how
to approach her. How could I be agrressive now? I was obviously not the
sexually dominant party. And how much could I deliver anyway? But if she
made moves on me, I would feel like I had to redeem myself. And I felt
like my sexuality wasn’t enough for her; after the work-out earlier in the
day, how could I possibly fulfill her now? Her vagina would devour me,
and I’d just leave her unsatisfied again. What would she do then? She
had gotten really impatient with me earlier; what if she got more
impatient now? I recognized two kinds of feelings in myself now: Anger
at her for belittling me, even if it was deserved: and fear. For the
first time, I recognized that I was afraid of a woman. She had the power
to make me feel totally inadequate. There was no way I could take away
her femininity, but she – a strong woman – could strip me of my
masculinity with just a few moments in the sack. I felt, looking back on
it, that when she stopped me into the doorway and rubbed her hand from my
asshole across my balls, pressing them against my body with her palm, that
she was telling me: “Eric, when you couldn’t handle me earlier today –
when I gripped your useless little nuts – I castrated you. I castrated
you.” Getting ready for bed – the two of us still in silence – I felt
like a eunuch.

She lay in bed, naked. The only light on was my reading lamp. I
stood at the side of the bed, and realized that if I didn’t take off my
boxers, it would be stupid. I would look ridiculous – I always slept
naked, as did she. So I pulled down my boxers. As I reached for the
light – before getting into bed – I saw her staring at my crotch. At my
flaccid penis. She had a look of hostile disappointment.
I lay on my back, rigidly. I began to think she was just going to
let me go to sleep, without trying to have sex with my again. But then,
while my mind slowly dissolved into sleep, while I lay on my side facing
away from her, I felt her turn over, and she banged her knee against my
ass. I was jolted into fearful awakeness. Although she had definitely
kneed me – definitely wanted me to hurt a little – I didn’t say anything.
I wanted to pretend it hadn’t happened. But then it happened again:
harder. And – maybe it was the darkness, maybe it was my total confusion
about what was going on – I felt tears well up in my eyes. I prayed that
she would just think, OK, I’ve punished him enough; I’ll let him sleep.
But then she did it again – this time making sure to drive her knee evenly
between my buttocks (but mercifully not striking my balls). Against my
will, I cried out.

“What’s the matter, Eric? Hm?”
She moved up to me, pressed herself against me. I could feel her
firm breasts pushing into my back. She made a couple of little thrusts
against my ass with her pelvis, then reached around my waist for my
“Something wrong, little baby?”
I instinctively pressed my legs together, trying to prevent her from
touching my balls. I sandwiched them between my legs hard – it hurt, but
I felt safer. She instantly recognized what I was doing, and yanked
ferociously on my penis. Again letting the illusion of “masculinity” slip
away, I cried out. She laughed, and tugged me more. But I realized she
could wail on my penis all she wanted; it was, compared to my balls,
invulnerable. I kept my legs closed, even if crushing my nuts slightly.
She would have none of it. Of course my scrotum was still partly
exposed, and she drove her fingernails into it, until I had to yield to
her. I was starting to cry; I opened my legs for her, and she was not in
the least bit merciful because I surrendered: she grabbed my nuts in her
fist and chuckled.

“Are you going to fuck me now, Eric? Are you going to pretend to be
a man and satisfy me, or am I going to take the broomstick from the
closet, gag you with a fucking towel, then ream you until you bleed all
over the floor?”

I heard myself whimpering, and I heard her laughing.
“You’re such a little wimp, Eric. I should never have gotten
involved with a boy as dickless as you. I could eat your little nuts for
a snack.”

I heard myself weeping. She held me around the waist, gripping my
weak masculine flesh – utterly dominating me.
“If only some of your boyfriends were over, Eric. Maybe then I’d get
satisfied; I’d screw them all one at a time – hell, two at a time – then
make you slurp their cum from my asshole, then fuck you silly with them
all watching what a dickless little twerp you are.”
She laughed, then bit my on the back of the neck. I cried out; I
felt like she broke skin, made me bleed.

“Wait!” she shouted, “Wait a minute here. Men are supposed to be
stronger in battle, aren’t they? Men are supposed to have greater upper
body strength than women. And if you forget their little nuts” – she gave
mine an extra squeeze, making my insides jump – “they’ve got a HUGE edge
over women, don’t they?”

She lept off the bed, then commanded me to get to my feet. When I
lay there quivering, afraid to move, she slapped my face with her palm,
“Get on your feet, stupid boy! Get on your fucking feet!”
And what happened after that is still sort of a daze. she told me
she wanted me to engage in hand-to-hand combat with her, to prove whether
women were really superior to men, or whether I was just a bad example of
man. She promised me she wouldn’t use my groin against me, and ordered me
to use everything within my power to beat her up. If I could beat her,
she would never, ever, speak or act disrespectfully toward me again. And,
with that preamble, she engaged me in combat.

She circled me – I was still rather dazed – and took a couple of
swipes at my head. They landed, but I didn’t feel any worse for it; I
felt like I had already lost, and was just waiting for her to take me down
and obliterate me. She grabbed me by the arm, twisted it behind me, put
her foot around my ankles and tripped me to the floor. When I was down,
afraid to get back up, she slammed her foot into my rear end four times in
rapid succession. I howled in pain and humiliation. Then she bent down
and slammed her fist into my mouth: instantly I tasted blood, mingled with

“Oh, you’re lost, boy! You’re just like all men, Eric! You’re a
puny, wormy little coward!”
I felt her trying to drag me to my feet – no doubt she hadn’t had
enough fun with me yet. She got me standing, then pounded my shoulders a
few times. I felt myself swaying this way and that, nearly falling over.
“Take a swing at me, Eric! Go for it! Try to hurt me, little man!
I dare you.”

I was already defeated; I was crushed; rendered as useless as any man
confronted with the natural superiority of womanhood. I knew she was
going to ruin me before the evening was up, so I decided to obey her;
maybe if I tried a swing at her, she’d get mad and get my torture over
with, whatever it was. So I swung a lazy fist at her.
To my dazed amazement, I hit her on the side of the face, and she
toppled. She let out a pathetic moan, and had to support herself on a
chest of drawers. And suddenly I was alive again. Suddenly, I was a man
Before she could recover, I hit her again: one more fist to the face.
And one more. And one more. And then she was on the floor, crying like a
fucking little baby. I stood over her body – she was covering her head
with her arms, sobbing – and I spat on her breasts. I kicked her in the
side, then put my bare foot over one of her breasts, and pressed on it.
And that’s when I had an idea.

I grabbed her feet from the floor, lifted them up, and spread her
legs apart. She was too weak, too stunned, to resist. And I laid the
ball of my foot over her snatch. Then I began wriggling my toes into her
filthy little slit. And I burst into laughter, because I had never heard
of a man foot-fucking a chick before. I was treading on her like she had
trampled on my manhood. But this was fair: this was the way of nature:
man rules, woman serves. And pressed all of my toes into her snatch, and
started shoving my foot inside her. At first she screamed, then she began
pleading. Then it was all over.

I didn’t see it coming. I didn’t know how it happened. She suddenly
freed one of her feet from my grip, then pounded it into my stomach. All
of the air was knocked out of my body, and I was doubled over, kneeling on
the floor. And then she was all over me like a fucking wildcat; her nails
scratching my back, my shoulders, her fists pounding my head and my face.
She grabbed me by the hair and yanked my onto my back with a thud, then
hammered her fists against my head like drumsticks. Then her pussy, which
moments before had been at my mercy, was suddenly gagging my face – she
had it over my mouth and nose – and she beat her fists against my chest
and my stomach. I gasped for air; I felt dizzy; I became extremely weak,
and thought I would black out.

“See, Eric?” she shrieked at me, “Who’s on top in the end? Huh? And
I didn’t use your male weakness against you, did I? DID I?”
She pounded my chest some more, then reached below her belly batter
my chin, and reached behind her to thump my head with her fist.
“But you tried to rape me, didn’t you? You tried to fuck me with
your foot. You tried to hurt my sexuality. Well, now I’m going to do
that to you, Eric.”

And, holding her hands in a double-fist, she swung them like a
jack-hammer against my balls. Not once. Not twice. She hammered my
groin repeatedly like a layer of rock to be smashed through to get at
valuable mineral deposits. I was weeping again; I was sobbing again. My
last memory of the evening was feeling her lips suck up my balls into her
mouth; I began to feel her molars grind against them.
Weeks later, after she had begun to train me to serve her absolutely,
she asked me if I had ever doubted that she would conquer me. I asked
her, in turn, if I had been too easy for her – to little a challenge. I
asked her, “If you had to try dominating me and my friend Paul – you know,
Paul from the gym – do you think you would’ve won?”
She looked at me, and smiled.
“Want to find out?”
She sat with her childhood photo album, occasionally stripping
away the plastic sheet to remove a shot.
Wearing tight, white Fruit-of-the-Loom underwear – and nothing
else – I scrubbed the hardwood floor of her apartment. I heard the sound
of another photograph being ripped up.

She tossed the shredded bits of FujiFilm paper onto the floor, and
I hustled over to collect them, and put them in the trash bin. She didn’t
like her place to get messy – even when she was creating the mess.
I looked at the fragmentary images as I gathered them from the
floor: her father, her uncle, her older brother – whom she used to
routinely beat up – her step-father, an old boyfriend…
“If only I could’ve known then,” she said, “What I know now.”
I was silent. I could just imagine her, a sixteen-year-old,
sitting in a car with some poor, love-struck chump: he – his hand
trembling – reaching over to kiss her – a shy, inexperienced boy – and she
plunging her tongue into the full depth of his mouth, pressing her hand
into his crotch, gripping his balls and demanding, “Big enough for me,
boy?” -his surprised whimper mingling with her full, proud laugh. She
mounting his erection, pounding her hips against his prone body, tugging
his hair back to see his face of submission. Moments later smacking him
around for ejaculating too soon – beating him to tears for not satisfying
her. Grabbing him by the balls, demanding one good reason why she should
let a flaccid twerp like him go on pretending to be a man – in her world.
Why she should –
“You idiot!”

She yelled at me: the buzzer in the kitchen had gone off. I felt
myself begin shaking. I scrambled to my feet to take her cake out of the
oven. I tried to get into the kitchen as fast as I could, but she bounded
off of the bed and intercepted me at the kitchen door.
“I told you not to let it burn, you fucking moron!”
I was shaking; I felt myself go pale.
“I’m sorry: I was…I was trying to clean a spot off the floor, so
“That’s no fucking excuse!”

She reached around my head and grabbed the back of my hair. She
jerked my head back violently – I heard myself let out a cry – then she
smacked my cheek with her palm. My face stung.
“You brainless, fucking coward! You miserable, stupid goon! How
dare you ignore my demands!”
I quivered: I knew that wasn’t the end of it. She slammed her
fist into my stomach, and – gasping for air – I doubled over. Gripping my
hair with both of her hands, she held my head right in front of her pussy.
She pounded the back of my head with her hand three times, then held my
face there — right in front of her pussy — for about a minute. Then she
spoke again.

“Put your hands on the floor.”
I felt tears well up in my eyes: I knew what was coming.
Dutifully, I touched my fingers against the floor while keeping my legs
straight. I stayed like that – bent over – while she went to the closet.
About two minutes later, I heard her footsteps move up behind me.
She stripped down my underwear. I was crying; I heard myself beg:
“Don’t,” I was saying, “Please don’t, Ma’am, please don’t – I’m not so
bad, Ma’am…please don’t…”
She wasn’t listening. She was smearing jelly on the twelve inch
dildo strapped around her waist. While I continued my whimpering, she
reached around my waist and grabbed my testicles.
“You fucked up again, boy.”
With my masculinity being crunched in her fist, I felt the tip of
her rod between my cheeks.
“You need to be reminded.”

I couldn’t stop shaking. She held my balls with one hand, and a
lock of my hair with the other. Pulling back my head, she slammed into
me: she broke the gates of my body, and laughed as I tried to muffle my
scream. On the first thrust, she hammered the dildo into me to the hilt.
I felt like I was being ripped apart inside – my whole backside hurt
terribly, almost up to my stomach. She pulled half way out, then pounded
into me again. I heard myself wailing as she pulled out, then impaled me
again; pulled out, then drove into me again…
When she finally got bored of me weeping and begging, she pulled
out all the way. I fell to the floor, clutching at my body. After she
removed the strap-on, then grabbed me by the arm and forced me to lie on
my back, facing up at her. She yanked my legs apart, exposing my limp,
limp cock. My jelly-like balls. And she moved down on me, laying her
hot, moist vagina against my genitals. She grabbed a lock of my hair,
forcing me to make eye contact with her, then slapped me across the face.
She pounded her mons against my penis, then reached down and yanked at my
testicles, only releasing them right before, I’m sure, they were about to
come off. She spat at me:

She made me get hard, then she raped me. When she was done, she
made me finish cleaning the floor.
By the time I was done cleaning the floor, the cake was completely
burned. She took it out of the oven; she removed it from the pan, set it
on a plate, then placed it on the floor. Its charred surface still
smoking, she made me sit on it – nude – for thirty-five minutes: the
exact time it should have been in the oven.
While the cake burned against my ass and my scrotum, she took
several Polaroids of me sitting there. She put the Polaroids in her photo
album, replacing the old pictures of the men she had ripped up.

As my relationship with Patti became increasingly one of service
and submission, my self-definition evolved dramatically: I no longer
thought of myself as a solitary creature with a finite, rather average
amount of power with which to exploit other solitary creatures randomly
encountered in life. Life was no longer a series of potential attacks and
conquests, whose only meaning came from ephemeral emotional entanglements
and transient pleasures.

I began to approach life from a more oblique angle when Patti
became my dom. The ordinary experiences of life lost their importance;
the everyday struggles lost their urgency. My perspective was much more
elevated – allowing me to reject much of typical human life – in two ways:
first, I felt I was taking part in a sublime – though somewhat underground
– movement to serve women as the pioneers of a True Civilization. The
modern world was characterized predominately by male “rationality” and the
typically male instinct to smash anything in nature that is
incomprehensible or seems uncooperative with the witless male conception
of social order. That modern, male-smudged world has failed. It has been
a crushing disappointment, and – with the help of my dom – I could see
that the race needed to disengage from that old dissordered perspective.
I had a small part (as is suitable for males) in the avante garde of a
new, female-dominated world order. This gave me a tremendous sense of

The other way my view of the world had marvellously changed was by
serving Patti as an individual. She was the voice and the embodiment, in
my life, of what was best in human nature. I surrendered to her because
her vision of things was clearer than mine – magnificent and illuminating
– and by stepping into my life and taking the reigns, she improved me
vastly. I felt an insatiable need to repay her. I wanted to do this
through total, unflinching slavery. She deserved nothing less.
This isn’t to say I didn’t resist her at times. I resisted quite
frequently, because the notion of male independence – even male
superiority! – was deeply ingrained in my mind. I needed constant
reminding and constant discipline.

My need for discipline meshed nicely with Patti’s fondness for a
physically fit male. She designed a rigorous exercise regiment for me,
and occupied me for much of the day with laborious chores and errands. It
was important that I spent every moment of my life pursuing activities for
her benefit; nothing I did any longer was for my own betterment,
entertainment, or joy – except in the long run.
Patti spent quite a lot of time lifting weights herself, and she
loathed me – when we first met – for being somewhat flabby.
“Too many subs,” she told me, “Are ugly, pot-bellied, sloths. It’s
an insult to their femdoms. And by no means will I tolerate that from
you, Eric.”

She found, however, that often when I lifted weights or did
push-ups, the blood coursing through my veins, the air pumping in and out
of my lungs, seemed to charge my testosterone level up: seemed to make me
cocky. As if subconsciously I thought that by improving my body I could
approach her excellence. As if by polishing my physique, I could
transcend my inherently soiled, stupid male nature.
Patti had various ways of counter-acting my testosterone surges.
One morning while I was doing my push-ups she stepped up behind me,
planted her bare heel on my ass, and shoved me down hard. My chest
thumped to the floor under the strength of the steel muscles of her leg.
“Push up, Eric.”
I tried to surmount the force of her thrust, I strained, my
forehead dripping sweat, but couldn’t overcome her. She shoved her heel
against the crack between my cheeks.
“Get up, Eric! Can’t let a woman overpower you, can you? Get up!”
I tried again, but my muscles were fatigued and sore.
“You’re such a pathetic weakling…”
She pressed the base of her heel down against my testicles,
pinning them to the floor. I gasped; she nudged her heel against them
several times, grinding them against the floorboards. Each time making my
groin throb explosively, each time making me gasp closer to the verge of

“You did well, though, Eric. You did real well, and I think you
deserve an applause.”
She stripped off my shorts, exposing my behind to her, then told
me to separate my legs, wide. I obeyed her, and she kneeled behind me in
the space between my legs.
“Now do one final encore push-up, Eric.”
As I raised myself from the floor, my balls – their scrotum loose
and sweaty – hung low from my body.
“Here’s your applause, Mr. Universe.”
She clapped her hands together several times – clapped them hard,
smashing my testicles between them. She made me stay raised up in the
air, weeping loudly, while she “applauded” my herculean efforts.

Once when I lay on my back bench-pressing her weights – which she
usually made me do naked – she came up to me and grabbed my penis by the
head. She held it still, gripping the glans tightly with her nails,
clutching it like a pair of toothed pliers. As I became more and more
tired, she tugged it harder; as I slowed down, she pulled on it with
greater ferocity — never relenting, but as one long tug, as if trying to
yank it from its socket like a carrot from the soft loam of a garden.
When I couldn’t, for the life of me, press the weights one more time, she
– still stretching my cock long – slammed my taut penis with her other
hand. My body lurched forward involuntarily as I cried out. She pounded
on my solar plexus with her fist – knocking the wind out of me – then
yanked my penis up to her again, and bit down on it with her molars.
heard myself scream a garbled, winded scream; the room was blurred with
tears; my whole body was shaking. Then she straddled me, and said, “Get
your cock up, Eric. Gimme a goddamn erection or I’m going to drop a ten
pound ball-weight from six feet onto your groin.”
Under her power, my body would do anything; I managed an erection,
and she rode it until it she came, then dismounted.
“Get back to your weight-training now, boy.”

Once when I was bench-pressing her weights, she walked over to me,
grabbed my balls in her fist, then squeezed – a vice-like, throbbing
squeeze – so tight that my legs began jerking about. She released my
nuts, spat on my face, then pumped her fist into my groin. When I
clutched at my aching man-parts, she screamed at me.
“Did I say you could stop lifting weights, you mindless, fucked-up
ninny? Get back to your work!”
She slammed her fist into my jaw.

One evening while we lay in bed, she held me in her arms, stroking
my hair, my bare back, my ass. She seemed happy, and I felt like I was
glowing; her approval was an intoxicant for me.
“You’re getting into pretty good shape, Eric. You’re getting big
and strong…”

I asked her – making sure to chuckle at myself while I spoke -if
she ever worried that I’d become so physically powerful she’d no longer be
able to dominate me. She laughed, then explained that physique is
irrelevant to the female/male dominant/submissive relationship: men are
submissive by nature; they are like drones, and cannot exist without a
queen. Their inherently confused minds, their constant need for sexual
reinforcement — both of these things establish their submissiveness as
something rooted in male chemistry. They need to be given directions in
order to function properly – directions which cannot come from other
inherently addled creatures – and they need to be reminded of their status
in the world by the regular degredation that male orgasm entails: the
feeling of being spent, of squirting out in an ugly, thick, aimless spray
the only thing that makes you useful to the continued existence of the

Patti told me that, aside from that, men were too slow-witted, too
sluggish and bulky as fighters to pose a serious threat to her.”Take your
friend Paul, for example,” she said, “Do you think you two – ganged up
against me – could win?”

Though I didn’t say so, my answer was Yes. Paul was someone I’d
known since junior high school; we had been close friends. While I had
gone into track, he – being stockier, heavier-set – had joined the
football team. But I didn’t say anything. I didn’t want to challenge
her, because regardless how she’d fare against me and Paul she could have
her way with me any day of the week. She was stronger, quicker, and

“What do you think? You and Paul?”
“Oh, I…I dunno.”
“You don’t know? Well, what do you THINK?”
“I…I’m just not sure…”
“So you think there IS some way you and Paul could beat me up?”
“Well, I mean…” I heard my voice quivering, “I guess it…
depends on how rough you played.”
She stared at me; her eyes flashed.
“You mean if I agreed not to exploit your pathetic male weakness;
if I agreed not to bash either of you in the balls, you think you’d win as
a team?”
I was afraid to answer her.
“Tell me! Yes or no?”

I hesitated again, and this irritated her: she grabbed a handfull
of my hair then yanked my face right up to hers; she moved her other hand
over my ass, jammed two of her fingers into my anus, plunged them in deep,
then yelled, “Answer my fucking question!”
“Yes,” I squeaked, terrified.
“Yes, you think you two could beat me up?”
Feeling tears of anticipatory fear well up in my eyes, feeling her
fingers drive roughly into my unlubricated hole, I nodded.
And the next day she had me call my old friend, tell him that I
had become the slave of a woman – her personal human doormat – and explain
the situation to him. He accepted her invitation, and the next day, Patti
had me clear all of the furniture out of the livingroom, remove all the
decorations, leave it utterly bare. That evening, Paul showed up at the
house of the woman I served.

“I don’t know who the hell you are, Miss, but I find it personally
disgusting what you’re doing to my friend. That’s why I’m accepting your
invitation to a three-way duel. I’m not going to fucking toy with you
cause you’re a lady, I hope you understand. I’m personally offended at
how bad you’ve pussy-whipped my friend; I think you degrade his
masculinity; I think you–”

“He HAS no masculinity, buddy, and from the looks of it, neither do
you. Now shut up and let’s get it on.”

Paul glared at her. I could tell he was steaming. Patti removed
her pants and her shirt — stripped down to a tight sportsbra and
underwear. One of our advance agreements was that no-one would wear
shoes; that they could be used as weapons, which were forbidden. Paul
pulled off his boots.
“I see you’re trying to psyche us out with your pretty, feminine
bod. Pretty slick, babe, but I can do the same.”
He removed his T-shirt, and stripped down to his underwear: black
jockey shorts, which strained to support remarkably large balls and a
thick, lengthy cock. I undressed last, feeling my manhood diminished by
comparison to his.

For a very brief moment, the three of us stood still. My head was
swimming; I felt nervous about what might happen. I was worried for
Patti: worried that after we subdued her, Paul wouldn’t be able to control
himself. If she hit him even once, would I be able to restrain hold him
back? I had fit into my role as a sub really comfortably; would I be able
to continue serving a dom who I had taken part in physically dominating?

Could her speeches about male inferiority continue to ring true for me
after I’d seen her getting beat up and raped by an old friend of mine?
As these thoughts criss-crossed in a silly maze in my head, Patti
stepped up to Paul with an expression of utter stillness and threw a
flurry of punches – at least five – that landed on his right cheek, his
left eye, his mouth, and his solar plexus. He was rocked backwards –
totally taken off guard. He groaned, bend forward with his arms now up as
sheilds. My dom turned to me briefly, and pounded my jaw with a right
hook that felt like a ton of cement. I fell to the floor.

I turned back,
and through the lights glimmering in my vision I saw Patti continuing to
clobber Paul with lightning-fast combinations. He was staggering; he
wasn’t able to fight back at all, he was just holding up his arms in a
flaccid effort to try to deflect her blows. This hardly worked, though;
his arms couldn’t cover all of the targets she found as her combinations
became fancier, more resourceful. In a few seconds she had him up against
the wall; she was thoroughly drilling him, and I began to hear deep,
masculine sobs come from him. And something in me broke, seeing my old
buddy trashed like -this strong, muscle-bound male figure being ravaged by
this slender, cunning woman.

I became enraged: I lurched across the
floor, grabbed Patti by the legs, and pulled her onto the floor.
After a few quick seconds of wrestling – in which she drove a knee
into my stomach, pounded an upper-cut into my nose causing it to squirt
blood – she had me pinned to the floor, and proceded to wail on me with
her fists which, like Paul’s face and my own – were now bloodied.
And then Paul rejoined the struggle, in what would prove to be the
very last effort either of us men could manage. He moved up silently
behind Patti, and punched her in the back of the head. But he was weak –
really already defeated by Patti’s clear superiority in face-to-face
fist-fighting – and his blow was ineffectual. Patti bounded off me, spun
around, and landed the five finishing blows to Paul’s chest and face.
Paul tottered vertiginously, then toppled backwards onto the carpet. His
body shook in massive, heaving sobs.
“Get on your knees, Paul,” Patti ordered him.
With his voice garbled by tears and a swollen mouth, he replied,
“Fuck you!”

Patti stepped up, grabbed the elastic belt of his shorts, then
pulled him up onto his hands and knees. Paul swatted behind him to brush
her away, and she swooped low to hammer her knee into his ass. His body
lurched forward from the weight of the blow. She told me to come over,
which I did. She told me to pull down his shorts – which, reluctantly, I
did. His balls were huge; the size of hens’ eggs. His soft penis was
extremely thick, and at at least six inches long.
“Now fuck him up the ass, Eric.”
Paul groaned.

“Shut the fuck up, you scum!” Patti kicked him in the head,
silencing him. “Do it, Eric!”

I was too frightened to defy her; I had never seen her batter
anyone like she battered us that day, so I had no intention of disobeying
her. She became impatient though: she stripped down my underwear and
grabbed me by the testicles.
“Get it up right now, or I’m going to rip these off and stuff them
up your friend’s nose.”

I grew rigid, and she made me kneel behind Paul. She let me put
my saliva on my cock; I could hear Paul crying softly with fearful
anticipation. And then I penetrated him.
I could tell Paul had never been fucked up the ass before. He
wailed, his voice booming so loud that Patti had to beat him some more. I
plunged into him with my full length, feeling my medium sized balls swing
forward and collide against his huge balls. I felt like he was my junior;
I was second-in-command below my dom. I was an agent, or a tool of her
will: teaching him a lesson. And it felt good.

When I was about to come, Patti reached from behind and took my
testicles in her hand. I shot my sperm into Paul with my dom pumping my
balls. Paul folded onto the floor. I could tell he was exhausted; I
could tell he was humiliated. And then Patti ordered us to switch places.

To my surprise, Paul had no trouble at all getting an erection. I
didn’t see it; I didn’t want to see it, knowing it would dwarf mine; but
after he briefly stroked spit onto it, I could feel it slam into me — and
I knew right away it wasn’t as long as the cocks my dom wore when she
wanted to rape me. I estimated it was nine inches.

Paul plowed into me
with a vengeance, though; I could tell he hated me for hurting him, and
was determined to hurt me just as much. The most hurful thing for me was
feeling his gigantic testicles swing like iron weights beyond my spent
nuts into my stomach. I was astonished at how big they felt, pounding up
into my body with each thrust of his cock. I realized that as a man, he
truly outclassed me. But I knew when he grew limp before coming that it
was because he recognized that he wasn’t hurting me. And this made him
feel frustrated and impotent.
“What’s the matter, boy? Did I say you could stop?”
Patti was all over him. I smiled secretly. My dom was going to
put this insolent man through the ringer.
“Did I say you could go limp?”

He didn’t say anything. I turned around to watch, and him sitting
on the floor, his bruised, blood-stained face looking chumpish and
defeated. She shoved him onto his back, kicked his legs apart, then
planted her foot on his genitals.

“When I tell you to do something, boy, I expect you to complete the

She laid her weight onto her foot, crunching his nuts against his
body. He howled, and she laughed. She reached down and grabbed his long,
thick cock. He mummbled something, incoherent and desperate, about
calling the police. This made her laugh even louder, and she rewarded his
wit by slapping him across the face a few times, then plunging her fist
into his well-endowed groin.

“Go ahead, call the police when I’m through with you. Tell them
you and a male friend of yours were beat up then raped by a woman. But in
the meantime, get it up for me, or I’m going to rip it off, bronze it, and
stick on the wall as a trophy.”

She grabbed his testicles – had to use one hand for each – and
worked them over: gripping, squeezing, tugging, banging them together –
until he got a full erection. She mounted his tall, thick penis, and rode
him for an hour.

I could tell she enjoyed it thoroughly: the raw physical
thrill of having such a huge cock inside her was made even more delicious
by the fact that she had physically conquered another male. When Paul
ejaculated and went limp, she beat him some more – driving her elbow into
his groin several times, threatening to have me rape again – until he
regained his erection. Then she drained him thoroughly, hammering out the
last shred of his macho-maleness like an exorcist.

Paul moved out of town; I never saw him again. That event – our
defeat at the hands of my dom – lingered in my mind for two reasons: it
was further proof of women’s physical control over men, and it was
something that Patti occasionally brought up to me: how superior Paul’s
cock was to mine; how puny my testicles were in comparison to his; how she
wished I was endowed better.

“You’re inferior in so many ways,” she said once. “But of course,
ultimately all men are.

She Wins
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